Just One of the Girls

When I was young I often dressed up in women’s clothing…wow, that’s a freaky way to begin a blog. But it is the truth: between the ages of 3 and 5, I frequently wore dresses and a bit of make-up. It’s a little fact about my childhood that my mother loves to talk about, usually upon meeting anyone I may want to impress. I don’t know exactly why I enjoyed dressing up like a girl - I’m sure the Freudians could have a field day with it - but I did, in public too.

These days, however, I tend to reserve my cross-dressing tendencies for more strategic, socially acceptable occasions, i.e. Halloween or trying to sneak into the girl’s dressing room at the fitness center.

While my days of dressing like a woman may be over, I still quite enjoy hanging with women. In fact, it seems that throughout my entire life I have always had a large contingent of close girlfriends. There’s something about hanging out with a group of girls that is refreshingly different than hanging with guys. Perhaps it’s their democratic way of discussing things or their ease with sharing emotions or maybe it’s just their smell; whatever it is, it’s just cool to chill with a bunch of chicks.

This past weekend I spent three days chilling along the Mediterranean in the South of France with three of my good girlfriends from Amsterdam – D, Mon, and Lel.

The best thing about going to the south of France with three girlfriends, who also happen to be tall and attractive, is that it’s a sure-fire way to keep the hoards of topless French girls at bay while insuring an abundance of Speedo-clad Frenchmen with whom to engage in pleasant banter about French-American politics.

The worse part about going to the south of France with a bunch of girls, of course, is trying to take a pooh. When you’re sharing a one-bathroom apartment, duke management becomes critical. It’s not like you can just wake up in the morning, drop a load and walk out of the bathroom to a line of waiting girls and say, “You may want to give it a little while.” They just don’t appreciate that sort of thing like a bunch of guys might, and quite frankly, they’re right not to. Therefore, my solution was to simply set my alarm every night to 3 a.m. so I could wake up in the middle of the night for a nice and very private poohski.

Aside from being a little tired each morning, the weekend was great. We lied around on the beach, swam, snorkled, we even got all dressed up (I wore a suit) and went out on the town. I must admit, at times I felt a bit like Charlie surrounded by his Angels – but mostly I just felt like one of the girls. That was, of course, until I commented on how impressed I was that the girls all managed to avoid getting bikini-top tan lines - to which they informed me was because they went topless when I wasn’t around. Guess I’m not one of the girls after all.


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Reasons why women generally get the raw end of the deal in men-women cohabitation…